


A Slippery Situation

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 16:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14476602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: It's raining, it's pouring, it's stopped. What could possible go wrong? An entry for the April 'Mud' challenge on Fete des Mousquetaires forum.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hail and thanks to Mountain Cat for putting up with my last minute entry. Sorry for a few missing scenes, but I had the challenge word limit to stay within.

Fuming, Treville stomped out of his office onto the porch overlooking the yard when he heard the sound of hoofbeats coming through the gate. He fixed his glare on the four musketeers as they rode through the archway then drew their mounts to a halt in the courtyard. Before the toes of their boots could hit the ground, he bellowed, “You four. My office. Now!”

Even though it wasn’t unexpected, the four musketeers exchanged uneasy glances before Athos, who was still seated on Roger, looked up and addressed their Captain. “Sir, I don’t think you...”

But an irate Treville cut him off. “Athos, I’m not engaging in a debate with you. Up here now!” With that, the Captain stomped into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Once more the four exchanged apprehensive glances. 

“I’m guessing he didn’t get a very good look at us,” Aramis surmised correctly. 

“Ya think?” Porthos remarked sarcastically as he looked at his pants. 

“Do you think we should make ourselves presentable first?” d’Artagnan questioned as he examined his own clothes.

Swinging off his horse and handing the reins to the stable boy, Athos decisively replied, “The Captain said now and now it shall be.” With that, he headed toward the stairs and began climbing them. The other three shrugged and trailed after their Lieutenant. Once they reached the porch the four made their way to Treville’s office door where they came to a halt.

“Should we knock? The door is shut,” Aramis noted as they stared at the closed, heavy wooden door. 

“It is shut,” d’Artagnan confirmed needlessly. In a hesitant voice he suggested, “Perhaps we should knock.”

Porthos grimaced at his friends with disbelief. “Knock? The Captain told us to come to his office. He’s expecting us. Why the hell should we knock?”

Aramis gave one of his little shrugs. “I like to be polite.”

Porthos opened his mouth to retort but Athos' actions forestalled him. Athos was tired, wanted a drink, and didn’t feel like listening to a prolonged debate on whether or not to knock. Making a command decision, he knocked, then immediately opened the door and walked into Treville’s office. Once inside, he scanned the area, spotting Treville sitting behind his desk. Moving across the room, he stopped, standing at attention in front of the Captain’s desk. The other three musketeers fell into line next to him to wait upon their Captain’s pleasure. 

Four sets of eyes fixed themselves on the wall behind the desk and didn’t blink when the Captain rose from behind his desk exclaiming, “What the hell happened to you?”

In a voice that was drier than he was, Athos quietly stated, “It rained.”

Treville sighed, bowing his head for a moment, almost as if in prayer. He already recognized how this was going to go and he knew by the time it was over he’d have a raging headache.

“Athos, am I going to have to drag this tale from you one sentence at a time?” he asked with exasperation. “I ask again, what happened?”

Promptly, the Lieutenant answered, “We slipped.” Then, realizing he had once again uttered one brief sentence, he supplemented with, “In the mud.”

As if to confirm the statement, a patch of dried mud slid off of d’Artagnan’s jacket and plopped onto the floor. All the eyes in the room were immediately drawn to the patch of dirt now residing on the Captain’s once clean, wooden floor. D’Artagnan quietly murmured, “Sorry, Captain.”

Treville lifted his blue eyes to track the muddy foot prints which were clearly visible from the door of his office to where the Inseparables stood. “My floor,” he exhaled sadly as he shook his head.

In that infuriating, logical tone Athos used when he knew he was right, he said, “I tried to suggest we have this conversation…outside.”

Glaring at his second for all he was worth, Treville shook his head again, before moving to lean against his desk. His eyes raked each one of them up and down, observing the inordinate amount of mud covering their bodies. “My Uncle was a pig farmer. Even after his pigs wallowed in the mud, I swear they were cleaner than you four.”

“As you know, it has been raining for quite some time. The ground is saturated and very muddy. I don’t believe there is a dry spot to be found anywhere on the streets of Paris.” Athos actually appeared pleased with himself that he had uttered such a long, informative statement.

“Yes, it has been raining of late,” Treville concurred. “However, I still don’t think that explains your condition or the fact that a messenger from the King was here with a letter and a very curt message requesting my presence at the Palace, after his Majesty has ‘recovered’. It makes me wonder what the King and, since the messenger was a member of the Red Guard, I’m guessing the Cardinal, have to recover from.” Treville stopped talking and peered expectantly at his four best, and most vexing, musketeers.

“So, you haven’t actually spoken with the King or Cardinal yet?” Aramis asked with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

“What makes ya think this has to do with us?” Porthos demanded a bit brusquely.

Treville gave the streetfighter a withering look before drily stating, “It always seems to be about you four.”

Porthos and Aramis glanced at each other and shrugged. Their Captain’s statement was accurate.

“Fair enough,” Aramis agreed, “Though there is a small chance this has nothing to do with us at all.”

“And how much would you like to bet on that small chance?” Treville inquired, quirking an eyebrow at his men. When all four of them looked distinctly uncomfortable, he added, “As I thought.”

D’Artagnan, who’d been quiet up to this point exclaimed, “But it wasn’t our fault. Not really. We did what we were ordered.”

“So, someone ordered you to get covered from head to toe in mud?” Treville asked skeptically as he shifted his focus to the newest musketeer. Since he was not as experienced as his brethren, the Captain found the Gascon could often be exploited as the weakest link.

Shifting his weight in discomfort, d'Artagnan replied, “Ah, not exactly, but it was a by-product of the order.”

“I see,” Treville uttered in a tone that clearly indicated he did not. “And by chance, did anyone else end up in the same muddy condition as you?”

Another uneasy stillness settled over the room as the four musketeers did their best not to squirm under the intense, probing gaze of their Captain. Finally, Athos, as the leader of the pack, broke the silence. “Others did get…inconvenienced.”

“How inconvenienced?”

Though his tone was mostly dry, there as an undercurrent of amusement in Athos’ reply. “Apparently enough to demand your presence at the Palace.”

With a grunt that indicated exactly how he felt about this situation, Treville pushed off the desk, walked behind it and dropped into his chair with yet another sigh. He held up a parchment, with a broken seal that indicated it was from the King. “Suppose we start at the very beginning and you tell me all about this inconvenience.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Look!” d’Artagnan exclaimed as they left the mess hall in the garrison. “It has finally stopped raining!”

“Good thing,” Aramis declared. “I was beginning to think our next mission was going to be to search for the ark.”

“You do realize that only Noah’s family was allowed on the ark, along with the animals that is.” When Aramis have him a strange look, Athos added, “What? I have read the bible, even if God and I are not on good terms at present.”

“God loves you no matter what, Athos. And as for the ark," Aramis smirked, "I’m sure I could get onboard. I can be very persuasive.”

“Oi, you’d probably sleep with Noah’s wife,” Porthos suggested with a sinful grin.

D’Artagnan, knowing how much Aramis and Porthos liked to spar verbally with each other, interrupted the exchange. “Not only has it stopped raining, but the sun has come out!”

Shaking his head at the youngest musketeer’s overly cheerful tone, Porthos muttered, “If he starts talkin' about rainbows, I’m deckin' him.”

Stepping in as the authority figure, or at least in the guise of such, Athos said, “I believe what d’Artagnan is trying to say is we have a mission to attend to gentlemen.” 

With that, Athos stepped off the small patio in front of the dining facility into the muddy dirt. With an unhappy expression, he squished across the courtyard toward the stable. Glumly, the other three followed in his wake with Aramis seeming to be particularly discontented.

“So much for rainbows,” Porthos grumbled as they slogged through the sodden yard.

“I just got these new boots,” Aramis griped as he sank nearly up to his ankles in the slop.

“And your coat’s getting muddy too,” d’Artagnan pointed out, in the pretense of being helpful.

“What? No. Surely it can’t be that deep!” Aramis exclaimed as he whipped his head around trying to determine if what d’Artagnan said was accurate. Then he noticed the wide grin that the Gascon was giving Porthos. “Very funny. Just wait until the next time you need medical assistance from me.”

“Give the lad a break. You do tend to care a lot about your appearance,” Porthos stated as they stepped into the stable and out of the mud.

“Pardon me for not wanting to look like a swine that has wallowed in the mud.” Aramis had no idea how prophetic his statement would turn out to be.

They retrieved their mounts and tacked them up since the stable boys were busy elsewhere. The horses were none too happy as they stepped out of the stable into the muddy courtyard, giving melancholy snorts as the sticky dirt sucked at their hooves. Their riders gave them a little consoling pat on the neck, understanding their disdain for the conditions. 

They moved slowly through the streets of Paris, the mud making sucking noises as the horses clopped though it. There really was no dry ground, for it had rained so long that the dirt was simply saturated with water. As they passed through the market place, they could see that the owners of the various vendor carts were trying to determine if they should set out any wares. No one was convinced the rain had really stopped for good. In addition, the foodstuff being brought in from the country-side was scarce because the roads were in such bad condition. There were numerous stories of wagons mired in the mud.

By the time they got to the Palace, the horses were muddy past their hocks and knees, and some of the insidious stuff had even coated their bellies, no doubt kicked up by their hooves. Not only would they require a good grooming, but their tack would require a lot of elbow grease to get it properly clean.

They schlepped into the inner courtyard of the Palace where the horses were stabled, leaving a trail of mud behind them on the cobblestones. The servant whose job it was to keep the area clean and tidy was not very happy with the wet dirt being tracked onto his clean stonework. Aramis smiled warmly at the man and said by the way of an apology, “Sorry, but they haven’t quite got the knack of wiping their hooves yet.”

The man with the broom didn’t see the humor in the statement, especially when the four musketeers dismounted and tracked even more mud onto his cobblestones. Knowing there was nothing they could do, Athos turned away to address the stable boys who came out to take their horses.

“Brush them down, please, before placing them in a stall.” Many of the lads tended to put the horses in stalls without attention. Since the musketeers' horses were groomed before they left the garrison, typically there was little need to do it again. But this mud-fest they had waded through made another grooming necessary.

With the horses safely in the hands of the stable lads, the four musketeers headed across the courtyard toward the entryway they used to go into the Palace. No matter how carefully they walked, their mud-encrusted boots left unseemly streaks on the bricks. When they got near the door, it burst open and a heavyset woman came storming out.

“You be haltin’ right there,” she instructed them in a no-nonsense tone. “You’ll not be trackin' no mud on my nice clean floors.”

Athos wasn’t all that fond of dealing with women, so when Aramis stepped forward to address the challenge, he gladly hung back to observe.

“Madame Roux, you are looking marvelously vivacious today,” the marksman said as he swept off his hat and offered her a slight bow. 

Hands on her hips, she wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you be thinkin' you can use your charm on me, Aramis of the musketeers. I know a rogue when I see one and I’m seein' one standin' in front of me.”

“Really, you shouldn’t talk about the boy like that. He is young and still impressionable,” Aramis said as he draped an arm over d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Ah youth.”

“I believe she was referring to you,” d’Artagnan snapped, shrugging off the offending arm.

“Me? I’m a model of decorum when it comes to the fairer sex, aren’t I Madame Roux?” Aramis solicited, turning his charm back on the housekeeper. However, she wasn’t buying into his act as she stood there scowling at him.

Porthos looked at his friend then grinned. “I don’t think she’s believing you, Aramis.” 

“Sometimes it takes time for my charm to grow on people.”

Before anyone else could speak, Athos cut in. “Madame, we are due on guard duty. You must let us pass.”

“I must, must I?” she replied turning her steely brown eyes on Athos, who staunchly stared back at her undeterred.

“Yes, you must,” the swordsman insisted, his voice dropping into a deeper register.

“I’ll tell you what I must do, Monsieur. I must keep his Majesty’s Palace clean, that’s what I must do. And if I let you in with those muddy boots, I won’t be doin' my job. And unlike you laze-about-musketeers, I need my job to feed my family.”

“We, too, have a job, Madame. And that job requires us to enter the Palace, through that doorway, now.” As Athos took a step forward, the housekeeper reached for the broom propped up against the wall and brandished it like a weapon. 

“You won’t be walkin' into my Palace trackin’ mud all over the marble floors that I just scrubbed this very mornin'.”

“Her Palace?” Porthos whispered to d’Artagnan. “And here I was thinking it belonged to the King.”

“Given the weather, perhaps cleaning the floors this morning was not a prudent idea,” Athos offered in his cool, logical tone that drove people up a wall.

“Don’t you be tellin’ me how to do my job!” The woman took another step forward shaking the broom at Athos. 

Aramis saw Athos’ hand tightening on the hilt of his blade and suddenly the marksman had an uneasy feeling, given Athos’ sense of duty and his opinion of women, that the swordsman might actually draw his weapon on the aggressive housekeeper.

Taking a step forward and getting between them, Aramis played the peace maker. “Madame, Athos is correct, we do need to get into the Palace to protect the King…”

“Do it from out here.”

“…and just as we wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, Madame, let me assure you that we need to be inside the Palace to protect the King. So, it appears a compromise is in order.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan, who were standing next to each other smirked. “This outta be good,” Porthos snickered.

“I hope,” d’Artagnan whispered back to Porthos, “The compromise doesn’t involve us having to mop floors.”

Aramis turned his head slightly and gave them a withering glare, before turning back to Madame Roux with a smile. “I certainly understand, after all your hard work, you don’t want anyone tracking mud on your clean floors. Therefore, we will wipe off our boots out here, making them nice and clean, before we put a toe inside the Palace.”

“He knows how to wipe his feet?” Porthos muttered to the Gascon. “I don’t recall him ever doin' such a thing at the garrison.”

Turning up the wattage another notch, Aramis asked, “Madame?”

Slowly, she lowered her broom as she considered the suggestion. “I don’t suppose you could just take them off.”

“Our boots?” Athos exclaimed incredulously, looking over Aramis’ shoulders at the housekeeper. “Madame. You want us to guard the King in our stocking feet?”

“What Athos is trying to say,” Aramis explained as he nudged the flabbergasted Comte with his elbow. “is it would be most difficult to do that. Having good footing during a sword fight is vital. It would hardly do if someone were trying to hurt our King and we slipped on the clean, marble floors trying to defend him.”

“That and I happen to know Athos has gotten behind in his darning and has a few holes in his hose,” Porthos whispered confidentially to d’Artagnan.

“Athos, the Comte de la Fére, knows how to darn hose?” d’Artagnan asked with curiosity.

“Nope. That’s why he’s got holes in ‘em.”

Athos, who could clearly hear his brothers speaking about him threw them a nasty glare before focusing back on the situation at hand. Taking a step around Aramis, he growled, “Madame. I insist you let us enter.”

“Hold your horses’ there, musketeer.” With that, she turned and stomped into the Palace. 

As the minutes dragged by, Athos grew more impatient and only Aramis’ hand on his arm stopped him from storming the castle. Eventually, Madame Roux reappeared with a bucket of water and a stack of cloths. 

“Now you be cleanin' every last drop of mud off them disgustin' boots of yours,” she instructed as she shoved the towels at Athos’ chest forcing him to grab them. The bucket she dropped on the stones and water sloshed merrily over the wooden edge. “Every. Last. Drop!”

Athos stood there looking stunned. As he went to retaliate, Aramis grabbed two towels from the stack and whispered, “Athos, she’s doing her job. Just clean off your damn boots.”

After shoving towels into the hands of Porthos and d’Artagnan, he turned back to Athos and took a cloth for himself. “Humor her. Remember, you catch more flies with honey.”

“We aren’t catching flies, we are doing our duty and we are already late!” Athos hissed.

“And we will be later if you don’t accede and do as she demands. Now sit on that bench and clean off your boots like a good little Comte. Sorry, but there don’t seem to be any valets here to assist you today.”

Athos stood silently for a moment, an almost unfathomable expression on his face. Aramis, who knew his brother well, realized he would suffer later for his glib remarks. But for now, the Comte took the remaining towel, dipped it in the bucket of water and began to scrub at his footwear.

It took a while before Madame Roux was satisfied with their work, which she inspected like a drill sergeant. But finally, she grudgingly let them inside. Rushing through the hallways, they made squeaking sounds with their clean boots on the marble floor. They entered the throne room to find the King and Cardinal already in attendance. 

“You're late,” the Cardinal declared with a sneer as he turned to face the quartet entering through the doorway. “Typical, I suppose.”

The four musketeers came to a halt and offered bows to their monarch and his First Minister. 

“Our apologies. We were unreasonably detained,” Athos offered as he straightened his back.

“By a formidable housekeeper,” Porthos whispered to d’Artagnan, who worked hard to hide his grin.

The Cardinal shifted his gaze to the other two musketeers for a moment, only half hearing what they said, before he chose to ignore them. 

“You were late. I will be talking to Captain Treville about your tardiness. I expect my musketeers to be punctual,” the King declared in a haughty tone. Then a smile lit his face and his voice grew cheerful. “Now, let me tell you about my most brilliant idea.”

Five men struggled to keep looks of dismay off their face at the King’s pronouncement. When their sovereign made a statement like that it was never a brilliant idea and usually not even a good one, at least not in the eyes of normal men. As far as the four musketeers were concerned this day had just gone from bad to worse.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sire, your idea is a splendid one. But I do believe another day would be more appropriate. You have so very much on your plate already for today. And the weather, well, I won’t want your Majesty to take a chill,” the Cardinal crooned in his most earnest voice, even though he was anything but sincere.

“Nonsense. It’s summer. The rain has stopped and the sun is shining. It’s a perfect day to go visit my new church. I’m putting a lot of money into that church for you, and as such, I need to be sure that it is coming along properly,” the King answered as he twirled one of the rings on his finger. “I would have thought you would be a bit more grateful. After all, it is a Catholic church I am building for you.”

The church the King had commissioned was a statement, but one that was being made to someone else other than the religious community. The Cardinal nodded his head as he bowed a little. “And the Catholic church is very appreciative and humbled at your Majesty’s overwhelming generosity.”

The King beamed under the Cardinal’s praise.

“However, might I suggest instead of an in-person visit to the church, you bring the master builder here to give you a detailed status report. I can have him here within the hour. Right after your meal, which I believe is one your Majesty’s favorites.”

He King’s smile faded to a pouty expression. “Cardinal, you are treating me like a child. I want to go see my new church and I want to do it today!”

It was a credit to all the other men in the room that no one even so much as rolled their eyes at their King’s behavior, which mirrored that of a wayward child. D’Artagnan started to make a facial expression, but Porthos’ well-placed elbow in his side brought it to a quick halt.

The Cardinal, at an unusual loss for words, looked over at Athos for support. Though Athos and the Cardinal usually didn’t see eye to eye, in this case they did agree; visiting the church today was a bad idea.

Removing his hat and taking a step forward, Athos solemnly addressed his monarch. “Your Majesty, we rode here from the garrison. While it is true it is not raining, the ground is very muddy and slippery. Our horses stumbled a number of times. It would be remiss of us to jeopardize your safety.”

“You were riding horses. I will be in a carriage. Problem solved,” King Louis declared with such finality they all knew this conversation was over and they had lost. “We leave after I eat. There. Two problems solved. I get my favorite dish and I get to see my church. You, of course, will accompany us my dear Cardinal.” Rising from his throne, the king headed toward his dining chamber. “Really gentlemen, must I solve every problem myself. It is so very tiresome.” With that he swept out of the room, leaving the four musketeers and the Cardinal alone.

“Well, that went well,” Aramis said breezily, earning him an annoyed glare from both the Cardinal and Athos.

The Cardinal appeared as if he was going to say something, but instead, he snapped his mouth shut and pursed his lips. Clearly, he was not happy with the King’s decision. 

“Shall we arrange for a carriage, your Eminence?” Athos asked tactfully, even though he knew the answer. 

“I suppose you must. Our King has spoken,” the Cardinal barked, his voice dripping with derision. Then in a swirl of red, he too left the room.

“I hope he doesn’t plan on wearing that red cape of his,” Porthos said as the four started toward the stables to make the arrangements. “It will get dirty in the mud quicker than Aramis’ fancy jacket.”

“It’s not fancy,” the marksman responded. “It’s actually quite plain.”

“And long,” d’Artagnan chimed in on the ribbing. “Like the women’s coats I see Constance making.”

Porthos grinned at d’Artagnan. “Oi. I’m surprised your frock doesn’t get in the way when you fight. Guess that’s why you're good with a musket. Your swordplay gets hampered by your skirt.” 

“My coat is both stylish and functional. It certainly doesn’t hamper my swordsmanship and if either of you gentlemen would like a demonstration, draw your blade,” Aramis answered with bravado.

Athos let his brothers' teasing wash by him because he was focused on the logistics of this outing. There wasn’t enough time to send to the garrison for more musketeers, so it would be the four of them guarding the King on this jaunt. He didn’t even consider asking the Captain of the Red Guards for manpower. They would be more of a hindrance than a help should there be trouble.

Once in the stables, Athos sent the other three off to get their horses while he conversed with the stablemaster. Athos, who knew all of the King’s conveyances, recommended the plainest, covered carriage. There was no sense in attracting any undue attention. He also asked for a strong, steady team, for he knew the mud-covered roads were going to be tricky. They’d be lucky if they didn’t have to push the coach out of some muddy hole.

The carriage and the horses were assembled in the courtyard to wait for the King. The musketeers sat on a low stone wall, their tacked horses tied to a nearby rail. Eventually, the King showed up in the courtyard, Cardinal in tow. As he strolled over to the carriage, he exclaimed, “See. There is no mud anywhere to be seen.”

“Perhaps because this is a brick courtyard,” the Cardinal suggested cynically as he followed the King into the coach.

“One that is built on dirt, is it not?”

“Of course, Sire. How silly of me to forget that,” the man of the cloth replied in his best diplomatic tone.

The four musketeers hastily mounted and took up stations around the vehicle; Porthos and d’Artagnan in the rear and Athos and Aramis to the right and left. The driver clucked to the four-horse team and the coach slowly rumbled across the cobblestones onto the road leading out of the Palace grounds. 

They were halfway to the church when the inevitable occurred. One of the wheels hit an unseen hole in the road, hidden under the mud, and the carriage came to a grinding halt. The team valiantly struggled on the slippery ground to pull free, but to no avail. After a few moments the King stuck his head out the door and motioned Athos closer to speak to him.

“I got a bad feelin’ about this,” Porthos groused to d’Artagnan.


	4. Chapter 4

The four musketeers were covered in mud and sweat. They had tried pushing, pulling and every combination thereof, but the coach remained stubbornly stuck. Each of the four had slipped and fallen in the mud more times than they could count. They had even tried adding the power of their horses to the situation, but the carriage had only rolled slightly forward, before there was a loud crack and the vehicle rolled back again listing to one side.

The driver, who had been no help so far, announced, “Axle is broke. I’d know that sound anywhere.”

The King’s head poked out the window. “What is going on?”

“Musketeers broke the axle, your Majesty. We are not going anywhere,” the helpful driver informed his monarch.

A tired, filthy, annoyed d’Artagnan groused to Porthos, “I didn’t see him climbing down to help.”

“They’re gonna have to get out of that coach,” Porthos observed as he watched the King’s head disappear back inside the window.

“You know they are not going to want to wade through that mud,” Aramis correctly predicted.

“Well how else are they gonna get out of there? Are we supposed to carry them?” Porthos said with a snort until he saw all his friends looking at him. “Oh no. Not happening.”

Athos carefully moved across the muddy ground to the coach door. “Your Majesty,” he addressed the window. “You and the Cardinal are going to need to depart the carriage.”

The royal head popped out the window to study the ground. “It’s very muddy and slippery. I don’t think that is a good idea.”

“And it wasn’t a good idea to make this trip,” Porthos whispered to d’Artagnan. “But it seems he’s forgot that that was his brilliant idea.”

In what he hoped was a reasonable voice, Athos explained, “Your Majesty. The axle of the carriage is broken. Even if we could get it out of the hole, which we can’t, it will not roll.”

Without thinking, the King flung the carriage door open, catching Athos in the side of the face and knocking him over into the mud. The King looked at the muddy ground, then at Athos sprawled on it and announced, “See, I was right again. It is slippery.”

“Especially when you get hit in the face with a carriage door,” d’Artagnan murmured under his breath.

Aramis waded over to Athos and offered a hand to help him to his feet. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” growled Athos as he struggled to rise and plant his feet firmly in the mud. “Nothing a bottle or three of wine can’t cure.”

The King, staring with dismay at the mud, declared, “I wish to be carried.”

“Carried?” Athos questioned, wondering how hard he had hit his head when he fell.

“Yes. To that dry patch, over there,” the King pointed to some grass twenty feet or so away. “Porthos. He’s strong. He can do it.”

Aramis wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the shocked expression on Porthos’ face. Surely the streetfighter wasn’t that naive. He knew the King as well as the rest of them and the request, as outrageous as it might seem, wasn’t really out of character at all.

Even though his face was streaked with mud, Athos adopted his finest Comte’s diplomatic tone declaring, “I think it would be unwise, as well as unsafe, for Porthos to attempt to carry you, your Majesty.”

“Are you telling me you are refusing to carry out my order, Lieutenant? The King demanded from the doorway of the carriage. “In case you were at all in question, it was a direct order. You and your men shall safely ferry me and the Cardinal to that clean, dry grassy area over there.”

The other three musketeers turned to look at their Lieutenant to see how he would respond. A few incredibly long seconds passed as Athos stood there silently.

“Now!” King Louis added in case there was any doubt. 

To his credit, Athos maintained his composure and offered his King a curt nod of understanding before he carefully made his way over to where Porthos and d’Artagnan stood.

“The King wishes to be conveyed from his carriage to that spot of grass over there,” Athos informed Porthos in a very formal, stilted tone.

“You’re kidding me, right? What am I? A beast of burden?” he demanded of his leader.

“In this case, yes. Your King has issued an order and as a sworn musketeer you are required to…obey it.” Athos stared at Porthos as if this was a normal, everyday occurrence.

“Athos…” Porthos whined.

“I understand this is a usual order, but none-the-less it is an order…from your King.” Shifting his gaze for a moment to d’Artagnan, Athos added, “And d’Artagnan will help stabilize the King.”

“Stabilize? How am I supposed to do that?” the Gascon exclaimed, wondering how he had just been sucked into this ridiculous task.

Athos didn’t reply, because he had no answer. Instead, he tilted his head towards the carriage and gave the two a look that clearly said to get to it.

Aramis, who had moved over to join his brethren stated, “Think of it as an honor to bear your King to safety.”

“Like a beast of burden. And what is the exact danger I am bearing him away from?” the unhappy musketeer demanded. 

“Well, if you aren’t even going to try to work with me to see the bright side of this situation,” Aramis said with a heavy sigh, “I give up.”

“That is because there is no bright side!”

“Gentlemen!” Athos interrupted. “Your King awaits and is growing impatient.” Sure enough, the King was hanging out the door of the carriage glaring at them. 

Grumbling under his breath, Porthos made his way to the coach, d’Artagnan a few steps behind him. “How am I supposed to carry him? In my arms like a baby? Over my shoulder like a wounded soldier? On my back, like a child, piggyback?”

Stopping by the door, Porthos watched as his monarch ran a critical eye over his person. “You are dirty,” the King stated without preamble. “I will get filthy if you touch me.”

“It will be rather hard to convey your Majesty if I don’t touch you,” Porthos logically pointed it out. 

King Louis appeared a bit put out by that answer, as if Porthos wasn’t trying hard enough to come up with a solution. “We need a cloth of some sort I can drape over your filth so I may remain untarnished. Driver, do you have any blankets?”

“No, Sire. Never saw the reason to carry any in the summer. People don’t be wanting them when it’s warm.”

“Well that seems very short-sighted of you. They would be extremely useful today,” the King sulked. 

The Cardinal, who had remained silent up to now, spoke. “Perhaps, just this once, your Majesty could set aside his personal hygiene habits and allow his person to get a little dirty for the sake of getting out of this situation.”

“A situation that never would have happened if I had stayed in my nice, clean, dry Palace. I don’t know why I let you talk me into going on this foolish trip.”

To his credit, the Cardinal managed not to turn as red as his cloak. “My mistake,” he muttered in a tone that sounded more sarcastic than apologetic. 

“Give me your cloak, Cardinal,” the King suddenly demanded.

Startled, Richelieu blurted out, “What?”

“Your cloak. Give me your cloak.”

“And might I inquire as to why?” the Cardinal asked in a curious tone.

“Good Lord, must I think of everything around here?” the King demanded in an exasperated tone. “I am going to drape your cloak over that dirty musketeer so I may stay clean.”

“I see,” the Cardinal replied in a manner that clearly conveyed his thoughts on that idea. 

Porthos was not very keen on the idea either. The Cardinal’s cape was quite long and if it got tangled around his legs it would spell disaster. 

The King wiggled his fingers at the Cardinal indicating that he should hand over his cape. When the Cardinal did, the King took the garment and motioned for d’Artagnan to draw near. Handing him the cape, he instructed, “Cover his back.”

Reluctantly, d’Artagnan took the cloak.

“Careful not to drag it in the mud!” the King admonished the Gascon. 

“Heaven forbid,” d’Artagnan muttered as he took the red cloth and approached Porthos. “Well, I guess you have your answer. Piggyback ride it is. Turn around.”

“You’ve gotta be joking!”

D’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder at their impatient King. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” Without further ado, he draped the red silk cape over Porthos’ back and secured it around the streetfighter's neck with the clasp. 

Aramis, who had a good eye for fabrics as well as fashion, mumbled to Athos. “Oh my. That’s silk. A rather slippery fabric. I fear this will not end well.”

Athos cocked an eyebrow at him as he drily declared, “Did you really think this could in any way end well?”


	5. Chapter 5

“Stop diggin’ your heels into my side,” Porthos muttered under his breath as the King clung to his back like a child on his first pony. “I’m not a damn mule.”

D’Artagnan, who was walking slightly behind and to the side of Porthos in case there was a need to ‘stabilize’ the King, smirked at the streetfighter’s commentary. “Oh, I don’t know. You are as stubborn as a mule.”

“Jackass.”

“Hey” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

“I thought we were naming the animal someone reminds us of,” Porthos retorted. 

Luckily, the King was too self-absorbed trying to cling to the slippery material covering Porthos’ back to pay any attention to the commentary of his conveyance. As Porthos carefully moved across the muddy field, more than once d’Artagnan had to reach over to help steady the King. From the looks he received, he wasn't sure his sovereign was truly pleased to have his assistance.

The disastrous event started slowly, then quickly escalated in magnitude. The King, despite his best efforts, began to slither down the slippery, red cloak covering Porthos’ muddy back. The King tried to find purchase with both his feet and hands, but to no avail. The lower he slid down Porthos’ back, the more off balance he made the musketeer. Porthos leaned forward to try to maintain his footing, but that only hastened the King’s descent. In desperation, the King reached up and grabbed the hair on the back of Porthos’ head, which caused the musketeer to totally lose his balance and fall backwards.

“Oh no,” Aramis moaned as he and Athos tried to scurry across the space to reach Porthos to assist. But the mud wasn’t cooperating, impeding their progress.

D’Artagnan did his best to stop the disaster, but the ground conditions and gravity were not on his side. Porthos and the King fell on top of him, and so they landed in the order of d’Artagnan first in the mud, the King sprawled on top of him, and Porthos finishing off the top of the royal sandwich. 

The King let go of the streetfighter’s hair, which allowed the musketeer to quickly roll to the side, off his monarch. However, in doing so, Porthos ended up face down in the mud. 

Aramis, who had slipped and was kneeling in the slime, and Athos, who was standing at his side assisting him to rise, gave each other a woeful glance. 

“While your . . . indiscretion . . . hasn't yet gotten us hanged, this just might,” Athos remarked drolly as he watched the King trying desperately not to slide off d’Artagnan into the mud, a battle he eventually lost.

Aramis rose to his feet in time to see their King slide off their youngest straight into the mud. “Dear God,” he half-exclaimed, half-prayed. 

When the King hit the ground, he let out a squeal that unfortunately sounded very much like that of a pig.

Aramis and Athos exchanged glances again and Aramis said, “I swear, if you even slightly smirk I’m going to lose it.” 

The swordsman remained stoic, though there was a definite twinkle in his green eyes. “I suppose we should go assist.”

They sloshed over to where d’Artagnan and Porthos, who were back on their feet, were helping the King to rise.

Judging by the commentary flowing from the very unhappy monarch’s mouth, Athos’ jest of being hanged may not have been so far off-base. One thing was sure, their Captain was going to hear of this and, if they survived the King’s wrath, there was still a good chance they wouldn’t survive Treville’s.

As it turned out, d’Artagnan and Porthos didn’t need their help getting the King to the dry grass. So instead, the other two musketeers turned their attention to the Cardinal who was still in the coach.

“Please God. I don’t often ask for intercession, but don’t let the Cardinal ask us to carry him,” Aramis fervently prayed.

“Is that something you should be praying for?” Athos queried with a sideways glance.

“It couldn’t hurt, could it?”

Fortunately, his Eminence had more sense and made his way to the grass on his own feet with Athos and Aramis lending a little support. When the Cardinal arrived at where the King was standing, he saw Louis glowering at him. 

King Louis eyed his First Minister from head to toe and if possible, his face grew even darker. “You seem rather free of mud, Cardinal.”

The four musketeers, sensing the growing storm, stepped backwards, hopefully out of the path of the oncoming destruction.

“I was fortunate, your Majesty. God must have been watching over me.” As soon as the words left his mouth, the man-of-the-cloth knew it was a mistake.

“Are you implying that God wasn’t watching over me? For I seem to be in a much worse state than you.”

“Of course not, Sire. God watches over all his faithful, always.” 

“Are you now insinuating that I am not one of the faithful. What am I, a Protestant?” the King demanded, not amused.

As if horrified, the Cardinal clasped his hands in front of him, almost as if he were in prayer. “Your Majesty. You are the supreme ruler of France. No one is wiser and more merciful than you. You are pious and magnificent. Were we not on the way to see the most beautiful church in all of Paris being built by your generous Majesty?”

The words of praise began to wash the dark expression from the King’s face.

“I am rather magnificent, aren’t I? And generous,” he preened. “It is the musketeer’s fault we are in this predicament, isn’t it.”

“As always, your Majesty is extremely preceptive,” Cardinal Richelieu said humbly.

The expression on the face of the four musketeers was anything but humble, however, they expeditiously schooled their features before the King and Cardinal turned to stare at them.

“Here it comes,” Porthos murmured to Aramis.

“Musketeers. I am filthy. I have mud in places where no King should ever have it. And this disgraceful state in which I innocently find myself is all your doing,” Louis exclaimed, flinging his arms wide as if to better show off his grimy state.

“He’s got mud in places it shouldn’t be. I’ll bet not half as much as I do,” the Gascon muttered under his breath. The way the Cardinal frowned at him, d’Artagnan almost wondered if he had heard him.

“My favorite coach is wrecked because of your carelessness. My clothes are in rack and ruin and my royal person shall take hours of scrubbing to even start to be presentable again. Your deeds today will not go unpunished. I shall be sure that Captain Treville reprimands you in the most severe manner. Perhaps I should have you placed in the stocks or even the Chatelet for the cavalier negligence you have demonstrated today.” He paused for a moment in his rant to draw a breath. “I do so hate being filthy like some commoner.”

Before the King could pick up again with his tirade, the Cardinal spoke. “Truer words were never spoken, your Majesty. However, might I recommend at this junction in time, we focus our attention on getting back to the Palace so your Majesty can be…” the Cardinal threw a contemptuous look at the four musketeers, “…attended to properly.”

“Yes, yes. As usual, you are the voice of reason in a very distressing situation,” the King responded graciously. “What would I do without you.”

“Being dirty is distressing? He should’ve grown up where I did,” Porthos groused to his brethren.

“As the carriage is destroyed,” the King exaggerated, “we shall be forced to ride your horses back to the Palace. Like peasants.”

“Peasants don’t ride horses,” d’Artagnan said softly. “And he doesn’t ride in a carriage when he goes hunting.” Athos threw his protégée a warning look to be silent. 

The King examined the four musketeer’s horses, who were standing off to one side, declaring, “We shall take that one,” he pointed to Aramis’ Fidget, “and that one,” pointing toward Athos’ Roger.

“Oh great, now we are gonna be hanged for sure," Porthos groaned. " Roger will probably bite him and Fidget run him under a tree branch.” 

Aramis grimaced as he glanced over at Porthos. “Fidget only did that once and it was because he had a fly in his ear.”

“You mean he only got away with it once. He’s tried many times,” Porthos corrected. “Only once did he manage to unseat you.”

The other three couldn’t stop themselves from grinning at the recollection of Aramis being knocked clean off of Fidget’s back by a low-hanging branch.

“I don’t know what you are smirking about, Athos." Aramis retaliated. "Roger’s behavior towards anyone but you is deplorable. That beast has stomped on my foot, nipped me and knocked me in a river.”

“I’d say his behavior was most…appropriate,” Athos drolly stated. 

“Well, if you don’t want to see yourself, and us, in jail, or worse, you’d better go tell your demonic beast to behave himself,” Aramis suggested as the King made a beeline for Roger.

The words that came out of Athos’ mouth as he watched his King approach Roger, whose ears were already slicked backwards, were more appropriate for a drunken sailor than a Comte turned musketeer.

“Let me help you mount your Majesty,” Athos declared as he hurried to grab Roger’s bridle before horse could do something inappropriate. Pulling the black stallion’s head close to his own, he warned, “You better behave or I am going to be hanged and you are going to be gelded and turned into a plow horse.” 

Roger flicked an ear as if he understood the threat and then became the perfect gentleman. He stood demurely as Athos helped the King mount, remained patient while his Majesty got settled, tolerantly ignored the thumps and bumps on his hide, and he even kept his cool when the King jerked hard on the reins for no reason. Roger twitched his ears and give a low snort as if to let his real owner know he was very unhappy and some sort of retribution, in the future, would be forthcoming. 

The Cardinal, with assistance from Aramis, mounted Fidget. “Is there anything I need to know about this horse?” Richelieu asked as he settled himself in the saddle.

“Avoid trees with low-hanging branches,” Aramis answered cryptically as he gave his horse a pat on the neck before stepping away. 

“D’Artagnan. Aramis. Accompany the King and Cardinal back to the Palace,” Athos instructed his men. 

“Hey. Shouldn’t I get to go since no one’s riding my horse?” Porthos protested vehemently.

“No. We will need to bring the carriage horeses back to the Palace, unless you want to walk,” Athos brusquely stated. 

Before Porthos could say anything more, the King addressed his musketeers. “I expect you to guard my carriage and see it arrives safely back at the Palace. Do not disappoint me again.” With that, he wheeled Roger around, with more force than was necessary, and headed back towards the Palace with the Cardinal following behind. Aramis and d’Artagnan rapidly mounted and rode after them.

Porthos, who loved to gamble, asked, “Wanna bet on whether the King will survive his ride back to the Palace on Roger?”

“Roger will behave,” Athos declared curtly as he watched the two horses canter out of sight. “I hope,” he added under his breath. “If we wish to make it back to the garrison before nightfall, I suggest we put our minds toward figuring out how to get this coach out of this hole.”

As they moved back towards the broken carriage, Porthos said, “I should be looking forward to getting back to the garrison. Food, wine, relaxation. But I’m thinkin’ after the King talks to Treville, we're not going to get any of that.”

“More likely a long lecture followed by the worse assignments he can come up with,” Athos agreed.

“The worse thing,” Porthos commiserated, “is for once, it wasn’t our fault. We didn’t make it rain. The mud was not the result of our doing. We did tell the King it was a bad idea to go visit the church today. We didn’t push him into the mud. We did try to get him to the grass safely and cleanly…”

“But in the end, we failed,” Athos interrupted, “And nothing else we did or didn’t do will matter. Blame will fall squarely on our shoulders. So, if we don’t wish to add to our list of crimes, we had best turn our attention to obeying the orders we were given by our King and salvage his carriage.”


	6. Chapter 6

They eventually got the carriage, driver and horses back to the Palace as ordered. The servant in charge of keeping the courtyard gave them a look of dismay when they entered his domain with the mud-covered vehicle, four muddy horses, one muddy driver and of course themselves, covered from head to toe in mud. They had gotten even grimier doing a makeshift repair job on the broken axle in order to get the carriage back to the Palace. The poor man who had just cleaned the entire courtyard of the muddy hoof prints left by the horses of the King, the Cardinal and the accompanying musketeers now watched his lovely bricks being tracked up again.

Wanting to ensure that nothing else disastrous befell the King and First Minister on their return trip to the Palace, such as low-hanging branches or an unruly black stallion, the two mud-covered musketeers headed towards the entrance to the Palace. 

As they approached the doorway, Madame Roux appeared, eyed them and frowned. “You’re dirtier than last time I saw ya. Don’t even think I’ll be lettin’ you into my Palace. I tell ya, ain’t no bucket of water is gonna fix ya up this time. You need a head to toe dousing, you do.” She reached for her broom again, which she had conveniently left leaning against the wall.

“Again, with her Palace,” Porthos noted wryly.

Athos, who was in an even fouler mood than last time, marched up to her, snatched the broom from her hands, and tossed it across the courtyard, nearly hitting the poor servant who had started to sweep up the mud they had tracked onto the cobblestones.

“Madame. I don’t have time for your trivial antics. It is my sworn duty to see to the protection of the King. I need to enter the Palace to ensure he arrived safely,” Athos expounded, standing toe to toe with the matron.

“And I, Monsieur musketeer, have a sworn duty to keep his Majesty’s Palace spotless,” she retorted, holding her own against the irate musketeer.

The swordsman snorted at her statement. “Housekeepers provide a valuable service, I am sure. But your services cannot be compared to the duties required of a musketeer.”

“Oh, ya mean like breakin’ the King’s favorite carriage and dumpin’ his Majesty and the First Minister in the mud?”

“Hell, it’s all over the Palace already,” Porthos swore under his breath.

And the housekeeper wasn’t done with her scathing commentary yet. “And then you send them back here on two ill-mannered horses while you bring that coach ya broke back here, covered in mud, as if ya was a common stable hand. Yeah, those are very important duties, Monsieur musketeer.”

Fortuitously, before things could escalate any further, d’Artagnan and Aramis came out the controversial doorway. They were mostly clean, causing the mud-covered Athos and Porthos to gawk at them.

Having caught wind of the tail end of the conversation, Aramis put a friendly, but firm arm over Athos’ shoulder to force him away from the formidable Madame Roux. 

“No need for worry here...”

“Or bloodshed,” d’Artagnan quipped as he walked by Athos.

“…the King and First Minster are safe and sound, Athos. So, we should be heading back to the garrison.”

Reluctantly, Athos let himself be propelled away from the confrontation with the housekeeper. 

“You know, Athos, your privileged roots were beginning to show in your conversation with the Madame. You did imply her work was trivial.”

Athos flung off Aramis’ arm, growing annoyed with him too. “You twist my words. I merely said her duties were not as important as those of a musketeer.”

Laughing heartily, Aramis agreed. “Of course, they are not. Nothing is as grand as being a musketeer. But your choice of words was rather unfortunate for such an educated man of the aristocracy. 

“The King is safe?” Athos asked again, changing the subject.

“The King and the Cardinal are safe and sound. Upon his return, the King immediately retired to his bathing chamber where, I have no doubts, he will reside for many an hour getting the mud out of all those places where it shouldn’t be.”

“You two are lookin' very clean,” Porthos complained as they entered the Palace stable.

“Only on the surface,” d’Artagnan assured him. “Madame Roux would not allow us inside until we agreed to change our clothes. We also had to scrub off our boots once again and our jackets. Then, after we passed her muster, we were reluctantly allowed into her hallowed hallways. I swear she is tougher than Treville.”

“Oh, and speaking of Treville, the King already sent a message to him,” Aramis informed Athos, who wiped his grimy hand through his grimy hair in frustration at how far things had gotten out of hand on his watch.

“Tell me the horses at least behaved,” Athos begged as they approached the stall Roger was in.

“Well, it depends on your definition of behave, I suppose,” Aramis answered in a tone that was way too cheerful for Athos’ present mood. “I’ll tell you about it on the way back to the Palace.”


	7. Chapter 7

“So, if you changed into clean clothes at the Palace, why are the two of you covered in mud again?” Captain Treville asked as he sat behind his desk studying Aramis and d’Artagnan.

“Because on the ride back to the garrison, we saw a robbery and Athos had us chase the thief through the muddy streets of Paris,” d’Artagnan explained with a disgruntled edge to his voice. 

“It is our sworn duty,” Athos answered stoically. “We had no way of knowing how dangerous this thief might be.”

“Yes. Of course. A boy of ten might be a grave danger to the King,” Aramis concurred facetiously. 

“And he was a fast bugger, wasn’t he?” Porthos added with a grin, remembering how much fun it had been to watch d’Artagnan and Aramis slopping through the mud after the street urchin. It had almost made up for him having to stay behind and get the damn coach out of the mud.

“He was as slippery as an eel…in mud,” d’Artagnan agreed, his sense of humor returning.

Tapping his finger on the opened letter from the King which was sitting on his desk, Treville appeared lost in thought. Eventually, he began to speak, very slowly. “Your King is very dismayed with the events of today. Words such as inept, bugling, foolish, incompetent, dereliction of duty, and treason were accompanied by words such severe punishment, stocks, prison and gallows.”

“Not sure I see how treason applies?” Aramis commented thoughtfully.

“Hmmm, but do you see how the other words might apply?” the Captain asked sarcastically. Wisely, Aramis gave a quick nod and remained silent.

Captain Treville sat back in his chair, stretched out his tense muscles and worked a few kinks out of his back. “I’m curious gentlemen. Do you lay awake nights and dream up these stunts to drive me insane?”

The four musketeers looked around at each other before, by silent conversation, voted that Athos should be their spokesman.

“No. Sir. They seem to occur . . . naturally."

“There is nothing natural about them," the Captain demurred. "You four can take the most innocuous event, like a carriage ride, and turn it into a catastrophic disaster. And somehow, I always get burned by the inferno you four create.”

“I swear to you on all that is holy, we don’t do any of this on purpose,” Aramis assured his Captain, though after moment he added, “mostly.”

“Well, for once, I don’t have to come up with your penance. The King, though I suspect it was really the Cardinal, has spelled it out here,” he announced picking up the paper.

A small shudder of fear ran through the souls of the four musketeers. To say that the Cardinal did not like them was the understatement of the year. 

“You are to report to the worksite of the new church that the King is building. The one, unwisely, you were attempting to visit today. It seems the foul weather has gotten the building of the structure behind schedule. The King wants his magnificent, generous gift to the Catholic church to be finished in time for him to be able to rub it in the face of the Duke of Savoy during his upcoming visit. Therefore, since the King has somehow decided you are responsible for the delay…”

“We didn’t make it rain!” d’Artagnan blurted out.

“…you four will be assigned for the next month to work as part of the crew building the church.”

“Surely you mean watch over it. Guard it. Duties a musketeer would perform,” Aramis sought to clarify.

Dropping the letter on his desk, Treville said, “No. I mean as laborers. Hauling, lifting, nailing, toiling from sun up to sun down to ensure the King’s marvelous symbol of his magnanimous generosity is completed on schedule. And should it not be done on time, his majesty has dictated that you will be imprisoned in the Chatelet until, and I quote, hell-freezes over. Though, knowing you four, you might be actually able to turn hell into a frozen wasteland in a matter of days.”

“This hardly seems fair, Captain,” d’Artagnan complained. “It was the King’s idea to go visit the church today. We indicated it was a poor choice.”

“Life isn’t fair, d’Artagnan. You have been given an order by your King and you shall carry it out, successfully. I don’t want to hear any reports of even the slightest mishap at that church. Am I making myself clear?” Treville demanded as he rose from his chair.

Solemnly, the four nodded in unison.

“Good. Now get out of my office so I can redo the duty roster to cover the month you will be absent.” 

As they turned to go, more dried mud flaked off their clothes onto the floor. 

With a sigh, Treville added, “And please send Bertram to deal with this…mud. I’d have you four do it, but I am afraid you would get more mud on the floor than you would clean off it. Get out of here, carefully, and go wash off!”

“I suppose that could have gone worse,” Aramis noted as they headed towards the bathing room.

“How do you figure that?” Porthos asked, clearly not happy with their punishment. Building was hard, boring work.

“Because the King didn’t throw us in jail, put us in the stocks or hang us.” Aramis explained, determined to look on the bright side.

“No, that will come later when something happens at the construction site, like, oh I don’t know, a tornado hits it and we get blamed,” Porthos replied resentfully. 

It was Athos who had the final word on the conversation. “Gentlemen, we will do as we have been ordered by our King, to whom we have sworn fealty. We are in good health, strong and reasonably intelligent. Surely, you would rather spend a month laboring on the church than in jail or worse. After all, what could possibly go wrong?”

THE END


End file.
